Sherlock Holmes in Russia

I

Sherlock Holmes was reading the papers when I came into his hotel room. Seeing me, he put aside the newspaper he was reading and said, ‘In the sort of life we lead, either we are asked to do something or, for some reason or another, we do it of our own accord.’

‘You are speaking of—’ I prompted.

‘I am speaking of our profession. More often than not, we are approached for assistance by others, but there are times when something crops up and investigating it is a positive joy, despite the fact that nobody has asked us to look into the matter.’

‘Do I take it that you’ve found something interesting in the papers today?’ I asked.

‘You are absolutely right, Watson,’ Holmes answered. ‘Today’s papers are full of a particularly mysterious crime committed yesterday not far from Moscow and, if you are interested, let me read you one of the accounts of it.’

‘But, of course,’ I answered. ‘You know perfectly well that I am always interested in anything that interests you and you would be doing me a great favour if you were to read to me whatever it is that could intrigue you so much.’

Instead of answering, Holmes picked up one of the newspapers and, finding the required item, began to read out aloud.

‘Last night, 25 May, at 11 o’clock in the evening, the police began to investigate a highly mysterious crime which took place near Moscow on the estate of a member of the gentry, Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff.

‘At three o’clock in the afternoon, Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff locked himself in his bedroom to rest, as he always did after having dined at home. Normally, his valet would wake him by knocking on the door after a couple of hours. This time, despite several attempts by the valet, there was no answer. Surprised at his master’s failure to respond, the valet knocked harder, but there was still no response. The valet now became anxious, ran to fetch the cook and maid, and all three of them began to beat on the door, but there was still no response. Fearing that something untoward might have occurred, they broke it down and found Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff dead. He was lying in his bed, his eyes bursting out of their sockets and his face blue. The district police and an investigator were immediately sent for and on arrival at the scene of the crime pronounced that Sergey Sergeyevitch had been strangled to death. A close inspection of the scene yielded only contradictory and incomprehensible results. First, it was established that at the time the crime was committed, the room was locked from the inside, though the lock was damaged because the staff had had to use force to break in. The window had been sealed for the winter and only a hinged pane in it could be opened, so small that a seven-year-old child could hardly squeeze through it. The room was on the second floor, and it had no other openings or apertures, even through the stove. Nevertheless, the old man’s throat showed clear traces of a strangler’s unusually long fingers. The face of the dead man was severely scratched in several places. An examination of the window, the windowsill and the ground beneath the window showed absolutely no clues of any sort. This might have been caused by a light drizzle which had been falling that day and most probably washed away all traces. The whole house stands in its own grounds. All that the investigators found were several strange traces on the wall outside of the room in which the corpse was found. These traces, most probably, belonged to some freak of nature whose fingers were inordinately long and left such strange prints. The staff were asked whether anyone in the house had deformed feet, but they all declared there never had been anyone like that. The investigators cross-examined the entire staff. Old man Kartzeff was a bit of a recluse, they said, enjoyed managing the estate, seldom received guests, visited neighbouring landowners and got along with everyone. He treated peasants and workers kindly, which ruled out revenge as a motive. Moreover, there is one other circumstance pointing to robbery as a motive. A drawer of the dead man’s desk was open and there were many papers and objects strewn all over the floor as if in haste. Asked by the investigators who had recently visited the deceased, the servants testified that since the end of winter there had only been two visitors. One was his nephew, Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, who lived on his own small estate, Igralino, not too far away, and another nephew, Nikolai Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, brother of Boris, had dropped in a couple of times. The latter was by no means a rich man and occupied himself with some sort of private business in Moscow. Further inquiries established that both nephews had each spent the night in his own home. Thus the investigation has produced no results and it seems that catching the perpetrator will be no easy matter.’

‘So, my dear chap, what have you to say to that?’ asked Holmes putting down the newspaper.

‘I can say that the perpetrator carefully considered every possible way in and out,’ I answered.

Holmes nodded, ‘I agree with you completely and, frankly, I wouldn’t have stopped upon this crime were it not for those strange references to abnormal traces left by the strangler firstly on the neck of the victim and then by the wall in the garden below.’

‘My dear Holmes, from what you have said before and your reading of this account, I conclude that you wish to take up this case,’ I said with a smile. Knowing full well the character of my friend and his inordinate interest in every sort of mysterious crime, I knew Holmes could not pass up such a case.

‘Do have in mind,’ I added, ‘that this case has intrigued not just you, but me as well. Hence, I volunteer in advance to be your assistant.’

‘Oh, I didn’t have the least doubt on that score,’ exclaimed Holmes, gleefully rubbing his hands, ‘and anticipated that you would make the offer first and since you know me so well, you knew I would get on with it without more ado.’

Instead of replying, I rose and began to put on my coat.

Seeing this, Holmes smiled and picked up his hat. ‘You are an indispensable assistant, my dear chap,’ pronounced Holmes with one of those good-natured glances that so gladdened me, ‘and when I am with you, the work advances thrice as quickly as with any other person.’

‘Just one thing,’ I asked, ‘are we going out of town now?’

‘Yes,’ said Holmes, ‘I have to look at the scene of the crime and see everything for myself. That’s why we are off to the Nikolayevsk station to undertake a short trip to not-so-distant parts.’

Chatting thus, we went out and hired a hackney to take us to the station. We didn’t have to wait long for a local train. We were told to get off after two stops and that the estate of Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff was just over three miles from the station.

II

The journey passed swiftly. Getting off the train, we hired a coach to take us to Silver Slopes, the name of the estate belonging to Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff. We arrived to find everyone rushing hither and thither in a scene of total chaos. Last night’s crime was still too fresh in everyone’s mind and, moreover, the corpse was still there amidst the chaos and the bustle.

The investigator was there, as were the local chief of police and Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, who had come from home when informed of his uncle’s sudden death.

Boris Nikolayevitch turned out to be a handsome man, some thirty-five years of age, with the outward appearance of a rake and gadabout. He was tall, with dark hair, an energetic look and a muscular body. His uncle’s death had evidently upset him and he now issued orders nervously and absent-mindedly.

A moment before we came in, Holmes whispered in my ear, ‘Remember, Watson, we mustn’t own up to our real names. Let’s pretend, say, that we are real estate agents here for the purchase of the estate. Dear uncle is dead, nephews are stepping into their inheritance, and this seems the appropriate moment to ask whether they are prepared to sell as soon as it is in their ownership.’

I nodded in agreement.

Our arrival was noted. Boris Nikolayevitch approached us first, asking who we are and what is our business.

On being told we are real estate agents working on commission, he involuntarily shrugged his shoulders. ‘Aren’t you a little premature? You come to the funeral like carrion crows!’

Somewhat rude, but under the circumstances, still understandable. In any case, something even a well-mannered man might say. But in the confusion round the corpse, we were soon ignored. This was enough for Holmes to start investigating. He left me to myself, bidding me to keep out of sight, and left to return all of an hour later. He took me by the elbow and said, ‘Let’s go, my dear chap. I’ve done everything I needed, but for the sake of appearances, let’s intrude on Boris Nikolayevitch with our original inquiry.’

Boris Nikolayevitch was pacing hither and thither, so intercepting him did not take long. But when we posed the same question to him again, he looked at us irritably and replied sharply, ‘It wouldn’t come amiss if you were to make yourself scarce. But just in case, leave your address.’ Having said this, he looked intently at Holmes. He stared for some seconds, then his lips widened slightly in a little smile, ‘Perhaps I am wrong,’ he said, ‘but I suspect you are not whom you make yourselves out to be. There is something about you which reminds me of someone else I came across accidentally during my travels abroad.’

For a few seconds Holmes was silent and now it was he who gazed intently at Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff. ‘I’d be interested to know where,’ he finally said.

‘England,’ answered Kartzeff.

‘In that case, no point in concealing our identities any further,’ said Holmes. ‘You guessed correctly and it is a great tribute to your memory. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is’ – indicating me – ‘my friend Dr Watson.’

A look of unutterable joy came over the face of Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff. ‘So I was right. The reason that I recognized you was that I saw you in London when you were a witness in an important case. But I felt too embarrassed to say so right away, and then I was completely taken aback by your superb Russian.’

He came close and shook our hands warmly.

‘But since this has happened and since you are here at your own initiative, it seems fate has brought you to our help and I cannot tell you how relieved I am, knowing full well that the villain who perpetrated this foul deed will not escape you. As of this moment, you are the most welcome, the most longed-for guests in this house, and I now beg your permission to present you to our investigator and the police authorities who are here.’

Holmes bowed his consent. With an exchange of pleasantries we went into the dining-room which was full of people.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,’ Boris Nikolayevitch said loudly.

Our names created a sensation. Investigators and police jumped to their feet as if we were their superior officers. Compliments rained on Sherlock Holmes’s head.

‘This gives us fresh hope!’ was heard on all sides.

We joined the company and the conversation soon turned to the murder. As was to be expected, there were many presuppositions, but they were to such an extent without foundation that neither Homes nor I paid much attention to them.

From their conversation, we learned that several people had been arrested, amongst them the valet, cook and maid.

‘Are you sure that the valet and the cook together smashed a door definitely locked from within?’ Homes asked the investigator.

‘Oh, yes,’ the man answered with total conviction. ‘There is absolutely no doubt, as you will see for yourself from so much as a glance. Only a locked door could have been mangled in such a way.’

‘Then why did you arrest them?’ Holmes asked in astonishment.

‘More as a matter of form,’ was the answer. ‘I’m sure we’ll have to let them go in a few days.’

Having questioned the investigator and police chief concerning certain details, Holmes asked whether he could examine the dead man’s room without wasting any further time. Needless to say, the request was granted, though I couldn’t help but notice the smirk that appeared momentarily on both their faces.

We all went to the dead man’s bedroom. It was just as we had been told. The door was smashed in and the key still stuck from the lock on the bedroom side.

Having examined this closely, Holmes said softly, ‘Yes, there is no doubt the bedroom was locked from inside and the door smashed in, in its locked form. This is apparent from the fact that the lock is twisted and the key is so jammed as a result that it would only be possible to take it out if the lock were to be taken apart.’

Having done with the door, Holmes next approached the bed in which Sergey Sergeyevitch had been strangled and, taking his magnifying glass out of his pocket, he proceeded to examine the bedclothes closely. Knowing my friend as well as I did, I couldn’t help noticing that he looked puzzled as he examined them.

Some minutes later he bent down to the floor and again began to examine something the others had missed. From the barely perceptible nod he gave, he had evidently found something.

We all watched with intense curiosity. From the bed he moved to the window. Here he pottered about for quite a while. It would appear he examined every little bit, even a little spot left by a fly. Gradually his face became more puzzled and more serious. And when Holmes finally moved away from the window, I could see that he was intensely absorbed.

Questions came at him from all sides.

‘Not just yet, not just yet,’ Holmes said absent-mindedly as he turned to his questioners.

‘Surely you don’t intend to keep us in such a state of uncertainty?’ asked Boris Nikolayevitch. ‘We’re all closely connected to each other and to the case.’

‘There are certain matters it is sometimes premature to discuss,’ Holmes answered.

‘But at least can you not point to anything suspicious, which may be a clue?’ the investigator asked impatiently.

‘Yes, there are one or two things,’ said Holmes enigmatically. ‘But, gentlemen, I repeat that, owing to certain considerations, I must refrain from further explanations.’

Everyone shrugged at this reply and a brief look of distrust appeared once again on the faces of the investigator and the police chief.

And so silently and evidently very unhappy with Holmes, everyone returned to the dining-room. The rest of the evening passed in conversation to which neither Holmes nor I paid any attention. After eleven o’clock Holmes asked for us to be assigned a room and we retired.

III

When I awoke the following morning, Holmes wasn’t in the room, although it was still early. As I had expected, he had been up at five, gone off somewhere and only returned at nine. This I found out only later from his own words. When he returned, I was awake.

‘My dear chap, I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said. ‘You were sleeping so soundly and so peacefully, I had no wish to disturb your slumber, but now that you are awake, I must ask you to dress quickly.’

Much as I would have wanted to go on sleeping, I could hardly do so in the face of his demand. I jumped out of bed, washed and we sat down to breakfast which had been sent up to our room.

‘Are we leaving?’ I asked.

‘Not entirely,’ answered Holmes. ‘It is very likely that we’ll have to return, but in the meantime, I’d like to accept the kind invitation extended by Boris Nikolayevitch for us to visit his estate.’

Chatting away, we drank several glasses of tea and when, at last, Boris Nikolayevitch knocked on our door, we were ready to leave.

Boris Nikolayevitch still appeared depressed, but was courteous and attentive. ‘I hope you slept well,’ he said, entering the room.

‘Oh, yes, for which we wish to thank you,’ Sherlock Holmes answered on behalf of both of us.

‘Is there anything else you would like,’ he asked. ‘Perhaps you are used to a hearty breakfast in the morning.’

‘I must confess that ham and eggs wouldn’t go amiss,’ Holmes answered with a smile.

Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff was all attentiveness and a few minutes later returned with a servant carrying our breakfast and a bottle of sherry.

Thus fortified, we thanked our cordial host and rose from the table.

‘Do you wish to come with me today,’ asked Kartzeff, ‘or do you wish to rest a while?’

‘With your permission, we’d like to accept your invitation this very day,’ answered Sherlock Holmes. ‘We are very pressed for time and it is very likely that we have to return to England in a few days.’

‘In that case, I shall give instructions for the horses to be made ready as soon as the funeral is over,’ said our cordial host.

As he was about to leave, Holmes stopped him, ‘Another little request. With your permission, I’d like to see your late uncle again before we leave.’

‘But, of course,’ answered Boris Nikolayevitch. ‘Shall we do so this very minute?’

Holmes nodded. We left our room and made our way into the hall where the funeral service was in preparation.

Approaching the coffin, Sherlock Holmes carefully lifted the muslin cloth over the face of the dead man and proceeded to examine the corpse. Several minutes passed before he tore himself away. But when he moved away, one couldn’t gather anything from the expression on his face.

Then the priests arrived and the usual service for that sort of event began. The reader began his doleful chant. The priest recited the service monotonously. And all was as if it was being done on a factory floor, unhurriedly, in a fixed manner but yet to some mysterious beat. Not particularly involved in the sacred service, we each stood sunk in his own thoughts.

The service over, we went out for some fresh air into the garden round the house. The garden was over ten hectares, i.e. nigh on ten acres in area. It was fully planted with fruit trees and truly magnificent. Here and there flowerbeds were scattered from which brightly coloured blossoms struck the eye. Yellow sand neatly covered the pathways and sculptures added to the sense of proportion of this lordly manor garden. We strolled silently through the alleyways and, from the look of intense concentration on the face of Sherlock Holmes, I could sense that a secret thought had lodged like a thorn in his brain.

A half hour later Boris Nikolayevitch followed us out. After the funeral service his mood seemed to have lifted. ‘I hope you won’t refuse to attend the burial today,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We don’t intend to let it drag on for long, especially as there will be no women present. I’m not particularly sentimental and am always against the dead being detained for long in the house of the living.’

‘How right you are,’ said Holmes. ‘The presence of the dead in a home is depressing, and as far as we in England are concerned, we always try to remove the body as quickly as possible to its place of burial.’

‘I’m sure you will excuse me for leaving you now,’ Kartzeff apologized. ‘I’m sure you will understand that all funeral arrangements are exclusively my responsibility.’

‘Oh, but of course,’ Sherlock Holmes nodded. ‘We’ll stay here while you see to your duties and I beg you not to concern yourself with us.’

Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff bowed himself away politely, while we continued our aimless meandering.

Several hours passed. At about two in the afternoon Boris Nikolayevitch again reappeared and said that the body would be carried out in a quarter of an hour. We followed him inside.

We saw the corpse lifted up on a long piece of cloth and, accompanied by the clergy and choir, the sad procession moved to the village cemetery.

I won’t describe the details of the burial as they are too well known to all. To the sad strains of the service and the wailing of the choir, the body was lowered into the ground. Heavy clods of damp earth thudded on the coffin lid and soon it vanished from sight. More and more damp earth was unevenly heaped over the grave and then, under the skilled hands of the gravediggers, evened out into the usual tidy mound.

The last note of the burial psalm and then all those present quietly trudged away, for some reason speaking of the departed in soft undertones. Sherlock Holmes and I also returned.

The dining-room table was already set and Boris Nikolayevitch, still preserving a look of sadness on his face, invited us to partake of refreshments.

In any wake, the faces of the guests begin by looking long and sad, but become merrier as the wine begins to flow until such time as the proceedings acquire the character of a proper binge.

It must have been all of seven o’clock, because the sun was beginning to set, when the guests and clergy rose from the table. At this point Boris Nikolayevitch approached Holmes saying, ‘I’m at your disposal now. And if you so wish, we can go to my place together.’

‘I am ready,’ answered Holmes. ‘Mind you, I see no reason for staying on. What I was able to find in the dead man’s bedroom has little bearing on this scene and so, having rested at your place, we still have to return to Moscow, where I hope to find more reliable clues concerning this matter.’

We didn’t have much to pack. Boris Nikolayevitch gave final instructions and we got into an elegant landau harnessed to a troika, three horses harnessed abreast. The sun set completely.

The well cared for horses, energized by the cool evening air, rose to the occasion and our carriage sped merrily along the country road.

It was less than five miles to the estate of Boris Nikolayevitch. At first, the road passed through open fields in which ears of grain were like dark waves. Then it entered the forest. This was thick with fir trees that hadn’t seen an axe for a long time, evidently protected for a long time by the late Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff.

Now right, now left, the road wound through the dark forest lit by a patch of sky in which a myriad stars blazed. I don’t know how others might be affected, but this mystery-laden road only served to depress me with its gloom.

We drove a mile and a half without encountering a living soul. There was something strange about this vast, unpopulated, silent country road which lay between the estate of the uncle and his nephew. I was unable to refrain from expressing my thoughts to Kartzeff who was sitting beside us.

‘What’s there to be surprised about?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘This is a direct road joining our two estates and since time immemorial the peasants aren’t permitted to drive along it.’

Emerging from the forest, we again drove along open fields and, at last, the tall contours of the Igralino estate rose before us.

We were met by the friendly barking of dogs, but as soon as they heard their master’s voice, they fell silent. Our troika rolled up to the porch. An old retainer opened the door. He bowed low to his master, cast a suspicious look at the guests, let us through inside and helped us off with our outer garments.

The house did not overwhelm us with its opulence but, notwithstanding that, a glance into any of its rooms and you would conclude that a scion of the old gentry lived here. Not only were their portraits preserved, but their way of life. The house itself was too ordinary to be described as palatial. But the furnishings in any of the rooms had been selected with remarkable good taste and were far from cheap.

‘First of all, gentlemen, abiding by a purely Russian tradition, I must show you to your quarters and then share with you whatever my humble abode is rich with,’ said the master of the house, cordially welcoming us.

With these words, he led us through several rooms and in one of them said, ‘I hope you will be comfortable here for the night.’

The room was fairly large. Apart from two beds, there was a wash basin, cupboard, a chest of drawers, a comfortable divan and several cushioned and ordinary chairs. Needless to say, we were very satisfied with the arrangements.

We thanked Boris Nikolayevitch and followed him to the dining-room. It was decorated in the Russian style and dinner was already laid out. The cooking was out of the ordinary. Over dinner our host made every effort to appear bright and cheerful, but I couldn’t help noticing that the events of the day were still with him. This was not unusual and so neither Holmes nor I paid much attention to that.

IV

‘You’re probably tired after such a day,’ said our host to Holmes, ‘which is why I don’t feel I ought to tire you for long. Frankly, the day has worn me out, too, and so, if you don’t wish to retire early, I’ll have to apologize for leaving you to your own devices so soon.’

‘I do understand,’ said Holmes sympathetically. ‘I, too, would like to rest. Silly of me not to have said so earlier.’

‘In that case, I wish you a very good night,’ said Kartzeff.

He went off, leaving us to ourselves.

Holmes shut the door and carefully examined the room and window. This was the only window in the room and as in Russian houses it had the usual hinged ventilation pane set inside it.

‘Perhaps the owner doesn’t seem to be much bothered by draughts,’ Holmes said as if by the by, turning the catch now this way, now that. ‘It doesn’t lock and the slightest breeze will blow it open.’

From a small leather case in his pocket he took several nails and nailed them securely into the frame of the window pane. After that he locked the door, leaving the key in the lock and began to undress. I did the same and a few minutes later I was fast asleep. I don’t recollect whether anything happened that night. All I know is that from the look on Holmes’s face sitting at the table when I woke, I could see he had spent a sleepless night.

Seeing me open my eyes, he heaved a sigh of relief and then said in a tired voice, ‘Well, now, my dear chap, thank God that you’re awake. This will give me a chance for a little rest. Stay awake, there’s a good chap, and I suggest you pay special attention to this little window pane.’

With these words he threw himself on the bed and a minute later he was already sleeping the sleep of the dead. Thoroughly puzzled, I sat there for a couple of hours, my gaze fixed on the window, but try as I might, I detected nothing suspicious.

The sun was already high in the heavens when Holmes awoke. He jumped out of bed, washed quickly and said cheerfully, ‘Well, my dear chap, I can now stay up for a couple of nights. That tired feeling is gone. Such tiredness is unforgivable and just this once, accidental.’

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I suppose something unusual took place last night and you’ll tell me what it was all about,’ I said.

‘You’ll allow me, my dear chap, to refrain from a direct answer,’ said Holmes solemnly. ‘It is very likely that in a few hours you will know more than you expected, and then your curiosity is bound to be satisfied.’

We chatted about various trifles and the time passed unnoticed. At nine there was a knock on the door. The door opened and Boris Nikolayevitch came in. His eyes were baggy and his face somewhat drawn. He greeted us, asked how we had spent the night and, receiving a positive answer, appeared contented enough.

‘Tea is served,’ he invited.

We nodded our acceptance. Over tea, Holmes, who was at first withdrawn, livened up and jokes, anecdotes and witticisms poured from him. When we had drunk our tea, he announced that it was imperative for him to go to Moscow.

‘Surely you can stay longer,’ exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch in a hurt tone.

Holmes gave a sad shrug. ‘Alas, I cannot. I did warn you yesterday that it is essential for me to be in Moscow today for pressing business and I hope you remember my words. This is why I must ask you to have horses made available immediately to get us to the station.’

‘Most certainly,’ exclaimed Kartzeff. ‘I will give the necessary orders at once.’ He went off but wasn’t back for some considerable time.

Holmes sat there without stirring, his head in the palms of his hands. The rest of the time before lunch and the lunch itself passed slowly. After lunch we were told that the horses were ready and, having bidden farewell to our host, we departed for the station.

V

Arriving in town, we made straight for Nikolai Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, brother of Boris Nikolayevitch and whose address we had taken.

‘It seems a little strange,’ said Holmes pensively along the way, ‘that the second nephew didn’t even wish to attend his uncle’s funeral.’

‘Yes, that is very strange,’ I agreed. ‘Could it be that we will find here some clues leading to the crime?’

Nikolai Nikolayevitch lived right on the edge of town, just before Sokolniki, so that it took a while to get to him.

Our ring was answered by a kindly sympathetic old woman, who asked the nature of our business. On being told that we had come to see Nikolai Nikolayevitch, she made a gesture expressing regret. ‘Oh, what a shame, what a really great shame that you missed him,’ she sighed good-naturedly. ‘We live so far away, and anyone who comes gets so upset when the master isn’t home.’

‘And you are his matushka?’ asked Holmes, using the Russian diminutive endearing form for mother.

‘Nanny, sir, his nanny,’ she answered with a warm smile. ‘Brought him up as a little boy, spent my life by his side. He’s such a good man, he is, and now he keeps me in my old age, where another would long since have thrown me out in the street.’

‘So where’s he gone?’ Holmes asked.

‘Why, he left just before your arrival. He just got the news that his uncle had been strangled or was it knifed, in truth I don’t know which it was. His own brother didn’t tell him. I don’t suppose he had time, with all the stir it must have caused.’

‘So how did he find out?’

‘The newspaper, my dear sir. That’s where he read it. It was all in the newspaper. Gentlemen, you will come in and rest a while. We may be poor, but there’s always a cup of tea. Happy to share what God has given. That’s how we do things. Should any friend of his not find him home, he’ll always come in for a cuppa.’

‘Thank you, nianushka,’ said Holmes, addressing her by the Russian diminutive endearment for nanny.

We entered the apartment. It wasn’t very big, all of two small rooms, a kitchen and a tiny box room for the old woman. The furniture was not particularly ostentatious. There were only a few things, more the sort you would find in a country hut, anyway. It was all fairly typical of the domicile of a young artist.

In one room there was a bed, a wash basin in poor condition, several chairs, a writing desk, canvas concealed the walls. Paints, brushes and other painter’s objects lay scattered everywhere.

The other room was filled with easels, picture frames with canvas stretched on them. Completed paintings and rough sketches hung on the walls, showing that Nikolai Nikolayevitch might be at the start of his career, but already showed great promise.

A great connoisseur, Sherlock Holmes examined the work of this beginner with considerable relish. The old woman was evidently very proud of her charge. She stood beside Holmes and with a smile watched him examine the work of her favourite.

‘Why don’t you sit down, sirs,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll get the samovar going. It will boil in no time at all.’

‘Thank you,’ said Holmes.

And shaking his head sadly, he said, ‘And so the uncle dies! How come his own brother didn’t bother to tell him?’

The old woman shook her head sadly, too, ‘He’s just a bad lot, is Boris Nikolayevitch, a bad lot. If he were a man like other men, of course he’d’ve told the master. I think he’s got nothing inside his head except for the wind whistling.’

‘A bad lot, you say!’

The old woman gestured with her hand to show nothing could be done. ‘What is there to say,’ she sighed. ‘He’s a born gambler. First he inherited an estate and a sizable capital sum. The capital sum he gambled away. He may have been a good-for-nothing, but he certainly knew how to ingratiate himself. My Nikolai Nikolayevitch was done out of his fair share because he wasn’t one to bow and scrape. But the other fellow knew where and when to turn up and flatter relatives, who would give him a warm welcome. That’s what happened with their grandmother. She included him in her will and left out Nikolai Nikolayevitch!’

‘And did Nikolai Nikolayevitch often visit this departed uncle?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.

‘On the contrary! You have no idea how often he was invited. Mind you, he did go twice, but didn’t stay long. No doubt he won’t get anything there, either. You’ll see, Boris Nikolayevitch will get the lot.’

‘To waste it on more carousing,’ said Holmes sympathetically.

‘For sure! For sure!’ said the old woman. ‘Nothing good will come out of the money that will come to him. He’ll waste it on mam’selles, as he always has in the past and that’s that! He did have a job, but got sacked for all those misdeeds.’

‘What was the job?’ asked Holmes.

‘He was a naval officer. Sailed as first officer on his own ship for some time. No less than ten years. And then he was kicked out. Thank God he wasn’t tried. Mind you, even then, everyone said he couldn’t evade being tried but luckily for him he wriggled out of that. They must’ve felt sorry for him.’

She suddenly remembered the samovar and with a cry quickly ran out of the room. In no time tea appeared. We drank it with great pleasure and continued our interrupted conversation. Most of all, we spoke of Boris Nikolayevitch. The old woman spoke of him without evident rancour but in the sort of tone people use when speaking of someone of whom they disapprove.

From what she said, we pieced together the information that Boris Nikolayevitch, the older brother of Nikolai Nikolayevitch, graduated from a naval academy and had sailed far and wide on a ship which had been part of a squadron of the Russian navy. Then, for improper conduct and some sort of financial peculation, he was dismissed. After that he spent some years sailing the Indian Ocean on British ships plying between Bombay and Calcutta. Two years ago, Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff returned to Russia and the gossip amongst his friends was that he had been dismissed even from the ships of the private line by which he had been employed. During those two years he had managed to squander the remains of his small capital. As for the estate that had been left him, he’d brought it to the point where it was threatened with going under the hammer.

‘But he’s always been lucky, batiushki,’ she said. ‘Born under a lucky star, he was,’ she said. ‘No sooner do things get bad, then uncle dies.’

‘Yes, it isn’t the deserving who flourish on this earth,’ sighed Holmes.

‘How right you are!’ gestured the old woman. ‘Take our Nikolai Nikolayevitch. He doesn’t get any assistance from anywhere. Pays for his own studies. Supports himself and me. Wonderful, wonderful young man! While if ever a spare kopeck comes his way, it goes to a needy friend. He keeps nothing back for himself.’

We sat there for a little while longer, thanked her for the welcome she had extended us, bade her farewell and left.

‘So, what do you think of the young man?’ Holmes asked me when we were outside.

‘That this is not where we will find the criminal,’ I answered. ‘I think this is all a false lead.’

Holmes said nothing. He paced along quickly, deep in thought.

Sokolniki was not a district with which we were familiar. We soon stopped a cabbie and Holmes directed him to take us to our hotel.

‘Any post?’ he asked the porter.

The porter rummaged round in a drawer and handed him a letter. Holmes opened it, read the contents quickly and then, having carefully examined the envelope, handed me a sheet of paper.

‘Just look at this, if you please, my dear Watson,’ he said with a smile.

I read the following, ‘Dear Mr Holmes, England has more than enough criminals of its own and your presence there would be immeasurably more beneficial for your fellow citizens than chasing fame in Russia. From the bottom of my heart, let me give you some good advice. Clear off home while you are still alive.’

I glanced at the envelope and saw it had been posted locally.

‘Well, what do you say?’ asked Holmes with a disdainful smile.

‘It looks as if our presence here is upsetting someone, and it seems that the letter has some connection with the mysterious crime at the Silver Slopes estate.’

‘Very probably,’ said Holmes indifferently, as he climbed up the stairs. ‘We’ve got enough time to change and get back on the train.’

‘Dare I ask where we are going?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we have to get back to Silver Slopes and Igralino once again. Nikolai Nikolayevich going there is just the perfect excuse for us.’

Without further ado we changed and made our way to the station.

VI

Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff couldn’t conceal his astonishment at seeing us back.

‘What hand of fate brings you here?’ he exclaimed, coming out on the porch. ‘I must confess I thought you have long since been in town.’

‘We’ve been there, too,’ answered Holmes, jumping from the carriage and greeting the owner. ‘But we were told that your brother, Nikolai Nikolayevitch, was on his way here and since we were interested in asking him a few questions, we hastened back.’

‘Not even stopping off wherever you were staying?’

‘What’s to be done! In our profession it isn’t always possible to do as we please and it becomes necessary to accept the situation with all its inconveniences. I hope Nikolai Nikolayevitch is with you.

‘Unfortunately not. He went to his uncle’s graveside. But if you think it necessary, I’ll send a carriage after him at once.’

‘Oh, no, please don’t concern yourself. It’ll keep. If you were to allow it, we would like to spend the night here and go tomorrow.’

‘But, of course. You know perfectly well that I am really glad of your company,’ exclaimed Boris Nikolayevitch.

Chatting away, we went in and sat down at the table which our host had ordered to be laid. At about four in the afternoon, Nikolai Nikolayevitch returned.

Told who we are, he didn’t mince words, ‘Yes, it would be a good thing to catch the villain. I’d be the first to cut his throat with my own hands.’

The death of his uncle had clearly affected him greatly.

‘Say what you will, but this murder is beyond me,’ he began. ‘If anyone could wish his death, it would only be the two of us, as we are both his heirs and in the will found amongst uncle’s things, his entire estate is to be equally divided between us. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t give me any pleasure to receive this damned inheritance, coming as it does in such a manner. As far as I am concerned, I have always been used to living within my own means since I was quite young and even as things stand, I can support myself.’

He lowered his head sadly without paying us any more attention.

Using his tiredness as an excuse, Holmes asked Boris Nikolayevitch’s permission for us to retire. Our host personally escorted us to the door of our room and cordially asked whether there was anything more we required either that evening or for the night.

‘No, thank you,’ said Holmes and we entered the room allocated us.

It was the same room we had occupied the previous night. Nonetheless, this did not prevent Holmes from conducting the most meticulous examination which included every little thing. Glancing at the small hinged pane in the window, Holmes gave a barely concealed smile, ‘Have a look, my dear Watson, at this example of gracious forethought. Of course, you do remember that when we first slept here, the pane was not secured. But now, just look at the improvements made by the host.’

I looked and all I saw was the addition of a latch.

‘Well, what about it?’ asked Holmes. And clapping me on the back, he said with a smile, ‘I am just trying to test your powers of observation.’

I gave a surprised shrug of my shoulders, ‘The latch has been repaired, that is all.’

‘And that is all?

‘I think so.’

‘But don’t you detect anything special about the new arrangement?’ asked Holmes with a smile.

‘Absolutely none!’

‘In that case, pay due attention to the following: for some unfathomable reason, the contraption actually goes right through the pane. Hence, it can be opened and shut from inside as well as outside the room.’

‘Do explain yourself.’

‘Why, only that I see such a contraption in a window pane for the first time in my life.’ Saying this, Holmes drew the heavy curtains over the window and lit the lamps.

It was already dark.

All was still outside, except for the soft lowing of cattle from afar. Very likely the herd was being driven to pasture.

‘My dear Watson, I recommend the utmost care and vigilance tonight,’ said Holmes to me. ‘It is likely that the events of the night will tell us much, which is why it would be a good thing for you to abstain from sleep. Now, I suggest that you watch the inner courtyard, if you can. Actually, no. We’ll go out for a little stroll in the field and then take up our watch.’

With those words he opened the door and went out. I followed. Boris Nkolayevitch and his brother were sitting at the dining-room table.

‘Have you already rested?’ asked Boris Nikolayevitch.

‘No, we thought we’d get a little fresh air,’ answered Holmes.

‘Perhaps you’d like me to accompany you,’ our host offered graciously.

‘Oh, no, we’ll find our own way. We don’t intend to go very far.’

We went out and for half an hour strolled round the house. I saw that Holmes missed nothing, not the slightest detail. Soon we had gone round all the outhouses and seen where everything stood and what was kept where. An old man passed by. Holmes hailed him and proffered him half a rouble to show us the grounds in detail. The old fellow was delighted at his good fortune and couldn’t thank us enough. He was a herdsman and told us he had lived there as long ago as the days of the late owner, the grandmother of Boris Nikolayevitch.

We wandered round the yard, examining whatever we saw, and eventually arrived in front of a small doorway. It was covered with metal and bolted with a large hanging lock. ‘Is this also a storehouse?’ asked Holmes.

The old man’s face took on an enigmatic appearance, ‘No, sir, not a barn. Mind you, when the late mistress was alive, oil paint was kept here for the roof, linseed oil as a base for varnish and other things. But since the new master took over, something strange seems to have appeared inside.’

‘Something strange, say you?’ asked Holmes. ‘What could it possibly be?’

‘How can I put it sir, since I don’t know and neither does anyone else.’ The old man lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Since the very day the new master arrived, none of us has been inside. I saw him drag in a huge chest, but nobody knows what was inside. He himself goes in twice daily, but none of us is allowed there.’

‘Well, I never!’ said Holmes in a tone of evident disapproval.

‘Oh, yes, sir! You can hear it moaning,’ whispered the old man enigmatically.

‘What is it that is moaning?’ asked a surprised Holmes.

‘Whatever is locked in that chest. Some folk say that a man who has lost his mind is hidden inside. Someone possessed. Might be related to the master!’

‘Where do you get all that from?’

‘I’ll tell you where from. Sometimes at night you can hear someone grunting or snarling. It is neither a human sound nor an animal’s either.’

‘Maybe someone got frightened and just said it,’ suggested Holmes.

‘Out of fright!’ said the old man, this time truly aggrieved, ‘I heard it myself.’

Holmes approached the door and looked at the lock. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘this is no ordinary lock. You wouldn’t easily find a key to fit it. In any case, if I were to decide to open it for myself, it would take a considerable while.’ He turned suddenly and looked at the big house.

I don’t know what made me, but I automatically followed his example and that very moment I noticed the figure of Boris Nikolayevitch jumping back from the window as soon as we turned around. Actually, I don’t know whether this was so or merely appeared so to me, but the expression on the nephew of the dead man was on this occasion particularly strange. It seemed to me that his eyes looked at us with an unnatural anger. But all this was only momentary.

Holmes turned away calmly from the mysterious shed and we continued on our way still interrogating the old man about any old trivia. Our stroll didn’t last more than an hour. When we had had enough of the yard, we went in again and this time, meeting nobody, went to our room.

VII

We had just about retired, when there was a knock at the door. It was Boris Nikolayevitch, come to ask whether we’d like to have supper before retiring for the night. He looked perfectly content to accept our refusal, wished us a good night and departed.

We began to undress, but before we went to bed, Sherlock Holmes locked the door, leaving the key in the door and, approaching the window, began to look out carefully at the grounds. He stood like that for nigh on a quarter of an hour. Then he reached into his pocket for his leather case, took out a few nails and once again very carefully nailed them into the frame of the pane.

Next he put out the light, came up to my bed and leaning down to my ear whispered very softly, ‘My dear Watson, have your revolver at the ready and under no circumstances let go of it. In the meantime, I suggest that you part the curtains carefully and give your attention to anything that occurs anywhere near our window.’

We tiptoed towards the curtains, parted them ever so slightly and put our eyes to the gap. A pale moon had risen and cast its mysterious light over the park. We tried to stand so quietly that the slightest move would not betray our vigil. A considerable time must have passed. I couldn’t check the time in the dark, but it must have been all of two hours.

I became bored by the long silence and finally just had to ask Holmes, albeit softly, ‘What do you suppose is going on?’

‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘This is no time for conjecture. We’ll know everything in the morning.’

And once again, hour after hour stretched past. My legs became numb from prolonged standing and I lost all sense of where I stood.

Suddenly, some object appeared at the window. A pole with an attachment! Holmes indicated I was to increase my vigilance, but my nerves were already stretched taut as it was. The pole was being slowly guided from below by some unseen hand and the attachment stopped at the level of the pane.

Whoever was below came nearer and the outer latch of the pane was now in the groove of whatever was on the end of the pole. It turned. Clearly, someone was trying to unlock it from down below. But now, just as it must have happened last time, the nails that Holmes had fixed with his usual foresight, proved too much of an impediment.

Someone below was trying hard to open the pane, but it would not give way. The effort lasted for nearly half an hour. The man seemed desperate to carry out his intention but eventually the pole was lowered beneath the level of the windowsill. We heard a slight noise from outside and below and then all was still. We waited in vain while another hour passed and then moved away from the window.

‘There you are,’ said Sherlock Holmes, ‘you and I, my dear Watson, proved to be wiser, and as it seems to me, this time escaped certain death.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

‘Someone was intent on opening the pane to let in a strange creature capable of squeezing through such a narrow aperture. Undoubtedly, it could not be a human being. The pane would have been too narrow.’

He was silent for a moment and then added, ‘In any case, the morning brings wiser counsel, so it would be better for us to sleep. I’ll tell you everything in the morning.’

I was dying of curiosity, but I knew perfectly well that Holmes would never say anything till such time as he was good and ready, and so I did not insist.

VIII

Next morning, for a change, I was up before my friend. But I had hardly swung out of bed when Holmes opened his eyes. He was a remarkably light sleeper. No matter how tired out he had been, the slightest movement served to waken him.

‘Aha, my friend,’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘I’m not quite myself this morning. Surely you couldn’t have wakened before me.’ I gave an involuntary smile.

We began to dress. Our movements and voices must have come to the attention of the household. Hardly twenty minutes had gone by when there was a knock on the door. A servant had come to ask whether we’d like tea served up in our room.

‘No thanks, my dear chap,’ Holmes answered. ‘We’ll have it in the dining-room.’

He waited till the servant had gone before giving me a look fraught with meaning, saying ‘It’ll be safer this way, especially being able to see the host drink first.’

Having completed our toilet, we entered the dining-room, where Boris Nikolayevitch and Nikolai Nikolayevitch were already sitting at breakfast.

There most probably had been a slight tiff between the brothers, at least judging from the end of the sentence uttered by Boris Nikolayevitch, ‘—you cannot possibly lay claim to any part of the inheritance. After all, you never paid so much as a visit to our uncle and he was entirely in my care.’

‘A will represents the will of the departed,’ Nikolai Nikolayevitch answered coldly. ‘Whether I visited him or not is beside the point. Since he left me a part of his estate, this is how it must be.’

Boris Nikolayevitch was about to say something, but noticing our arrival, broke off the conversation abruptly, greeted me very cordially and offered tea. ‘I hope you slept well,’ he addressed us both.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I slept like a log till morning.’

‘And I, too,’ said Holmes. ‘Country air does predispose one to sleep, especially after an energetic stroll. And we must’ve strolled round your place at least a full hour before retiring.’

‘You have such a lovely nanny,’ he added, turning to Nikolai Nikolayevich.

‘Oh, indeed!’ answered the young man smiling happily. Evidently, he liked having the old lady praised. His face lit up with a kind and sympathetic smile. ‘I do love the old lady,’ he said tenderly, ‘for I have neither father nor mother. She is all I have left as the only loving reminder of my happy childhood.’

The brothers reminisced about their childhood, their capers and pranks. Our presence didn’t seem to divert them from their memories. However, when breakfast was over, before leaving the table, Boris Nikolayevitch turned to my friend, ‘You will allow me to ask a question, Mr Holmes?’

‘By all means,’ came the answer.

‘Forgive me for what might be considered an insolent question, but I am curious to know how far advanced is your investigation into clearing up the mysterious murder. In fact, has it advanced at all?’

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Yes, one could say that it is advancing and successfully so,’ he said. ‘But owing to certain circumstances I have to be circumspect and consider the time is not yet ripe for me to reveal the results. Of course, while I know I can rely on your discretion, nonetheless, an incautious word, involuntarily dropped, may serve to harm the course of events.’

Boris Nikolayevitch shrugged, ‘Of course, you know best and it would be silly of me to insist. Sooner or later, however, you’ll reveal all yourself, but since I do not belong amongst the ranks of the curious, I shall be silent, at least until such time as you yourself choose to share your secrets with me.’

We exchanged various trivia and then Holmes announced he had to say something to me in private. We thanked our host for breakfast and left the dining-room. We went back to our room, put on our hats and went out, following the country road further out. Holmes glanced around him, saw that nobody followed and we lessened our pace. Well over a mile later, we threw ourselves on the soft grass beside the road.

‘Well, then, my dear Holmes, last night you promised you’d reveal something interesting to me concerning your preliminary findings. We are all alone here, and since we cannot be overheard, there is nothing to prevent us from speaking loudly and clearly.’

‘True, true,’ said Holmes and stretched himself out with evident pleasure on the green sward. ‘When we set off, it was with the intention of sharing with you everything I have done up to this point. If you are ready, I’ll begin.’

‘Of course,’ I said in joyful anticipation of a good story.

IX

Holmes stretched himself lazily, turned his head to face me and began his story.

‘You probably remember, my dear Watson,’ he began, ‘our first arrival on the scene. As soon as we arrived at the scene of the crime, I was really amazed at the inadequate attention the investigative authorities had given the matter. It was as if the crime was of no particular interest. They didn’t even bother to examine the room in which Kartzeff died. By the way, even from my initial glance at the bed on which he died, I was able to spot clues with the use of my magnifying glass and that put me on the right track. It was from that moment that I was convinced that the crime was committed not by a man, but by a beast.

‘I spotted a few soft grey hairs on the blanket and the pillows. I examined them with a magnifying glass and established that they undoubtedly belonged to an animal. Then a close examination of the waxed parquet floor showed several traces of movement from the window to the bed and back again. These were long, with a narrow heel and long toes. They had definitely been made by an ape. I found the same sort of traces by the wall from which the window of the dead man looked out.

‘It was clear that the ape had crept into Kartzeff’s room through the window pane, strangled him, clambered up to the roof and then descended using the rain pipe attached to the wall.

‘An examination of the corpse only confirmed my assumption, as there were traces of an ape’s paws round the throat of the corpse.

‘You know, of course, that I have often journeyed through India. I have covered nearly all the shores of the Indian Ocean, often travelling deep inland and, on several occasions, I saw the baboons which local Indians utilized for hunting. It was enough to show these dreaded animals the intended victim for them to leap on it with lightning-like agility, using their muscular paws to choke the life out of it. For some reason, these Indian baboons somehow came to mind when I looked at the scene of the crime.

‘I have to admit that, at first, my suspicions fell strongly on Nikolai Nikolayevitch, of whom it was said that he visited his uncle extremely rarely and when departing never ever displayed any warmth. That’s why I hastened away with you to test my suspicions. But the old nanny’s account caused me to change my mind completely and all suspicions directed at Nikolai Nkolayevitch flew out of my mind.

‘In fact, since then I had no doubt that his brother, Boris Nikolayevitch had committed the crime, although the latter hadn’t betrayed guilt in the slightest manner. His service and dismissal from the navy and merchant marine, his poor reputation and finally his travels up and down the Indian Ocean gave rise to the first suspicions. Even then, the thought struck me that it could have been there that this sort of ape was acquired by him.

‘The threatening letter which came to us in the hotel only strengthened my suspicion. That letter was a terrible blunder on the part of Boris Nikolayevitch and became the prime mover in establishing his guilt. Of course, it is possible to disguise handwriting, but I am certain that a handwriting expert will prove that it is that of Boris Kartzeff.

‘And so, this was the course of my thinking: he’d lost everything in riotous living and now he couldn’t wait for the death of his uncle. He knew about the will. And so, seeing that his own estate was about to go under the hammer, he decided to advance his way out of the situation.

‘The fact is that from the moment of his arrival he had kept the ape under lock and key, let nobody see it, all this was a clear indication that he was up to no good. Evidently, that damned beast had been prepared for its task long before and all he had to do was point it at the victim for it to carry out its task. This is how Kartzeff distanced himself from the crime, substituting a creature that had no sense of what it was doing, thus guaranteeing his own safety from punishment.

‘I fully comprehended his train of thought and action, but I have to admit that as an intelligent man he too read my mind and intuitively realized he could not escape from me. Of that he must actually have been convinced on the very first day we met, and when we arrived the very first time he immediately decided to put an end to us. You, of course, hadn’t noticed that we had been assigned a room in which the window had a pane with a broken latch, nor that the room in which old Kartzeff had been strangled had a pane with a similarly broken latch.

‘But on that occasion, his plan did not work. With foresight, I had nailed down the pane and for it to be opened there would have to be enough noise for us to be alerted. And that wasn’t part of the villain’s plan. I think you saw him in the window during our stroll last night—’

‘Oh, I shall never forget that look, a mixture of fear and loathing,’ I said.

‘If until then I had any reservations about his guilt, all doubt vanished from that moment. And so, during the night, I waited for confirmation of my presuppositions,’ said Holmes. ‘In any case, there’s not much more to tell you about the most recent events. You saw for yourself how an invisible hand tried to open the pane for that cursed animal to get into our room. Now, Watson, all that’s left is to lure him to a last desperate step. As soon as we return, I will announce that we have decided to depart for the city and, depending on how he reacts, we’ll decide what to do next. In the meantime, let us take our time getting back.’

X

We strolled back.

Boris Nikolayevitch was busy in the yard, handing out some sort of orders concerning household matters, when Sherlock Holmes approached and firmly stated that we had to return to Moscow this very day.

A hardly discernible gleam appeared in Kartzeff’s glance. But it was only momentary and, taking himself in hand, he said indifferently, ‘I am so sorry you cannot stay longer, but it can’t be helped. Work must come first. If you don’t intend to stop off at Silver Slopes, I’ll send you to the station by the direct road. I am only sorry that I cannot do so immediately. My horses are all out on the road and you’ll have to wait a few hours.’

‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ answered Sherlock Holmes.

‘I’ll give instructions for you to be driven to the ferry. It belongs to me, by the way. From there, the same horses will take you to the station.’

‘Excellent!’ said Sherlock Holmes.

We thanked him again and went inside, where we chatted with Nikolai Nikolayevitch and Boris Nikolayevitch who occasionally dropped in on us. Nevertheless, hour after hour went by and no horses appeared.

At a convenient moment, when both brothers were out of the room at the same time, Holmes whispered to me softly, ‘I forgot to tell you another little detail. This morning a sock went missing. I deliberately placed my boots outside the door and stuffed my socks inside them. Tell me, why do you think a sock went missing?’

‘I haven’t a clue. Now why should he need an old sock of yours,’ I said with a smile.

‘All the same, it is a serious matter,’ said Holmes. ‘I am nearly certain that he needed the sock for that ape to scent.’

Dinner was served at five and went off normally. It was another two hours before the host informed us the horses were ready and awaited us by the porch. But even here there was a delay. Kartzeff examined the carriage and claimed it hadn’t been properly oiled. He gave instructions for it to be oiled all over again. It was clearly a deliberate attempt to delay us further.

Night was beginning to fall when, at last, we thanked the brothers for their hospitality, bade them farewell and departed. After a mile along the road, the carriage entered a forest. Now the sun set and it became completely dark.

‘Be even more on your guard and hold on to your revolver,’ Holmes whispered.

As we drove into the forest, the driver slowed down.

Holding his revolver in his hand, Holmes looked back and ordered me to do the same. The precaution was not wasted. A couple of miles into the forest, Holmes pressed my hand forcefully. Leaning over the seat with his outstretched hand holding a revolver, it was as if he was expecting some invisible foe. And suddenly, despite the darkness, I saw the fairly large, dark silhouette of some strange creature. It sped along the road after us in silent leaps. I had hardly become aware of what was going on, hardly had the thought flashed through my mind that this might be the ape-strangler, when the terrifying creature caught up with us and made a colossal flying leap.

Simultaneously, our shots rang out. The damned creature crashed to the ground.

At exactly the same moment the driver tumbled head over heels off the coach-box and vanished amongst the trees. The horses surged forward, only to be stopped by Holmes’s powerful grip. He quickly passed the reins to me and, revolver in hand, jumped off the carriage. He ran a few quick steps towards the animal lying on the ground and a third shot rang out. He returned dragging the dead ape along with him. He threw it in, jumped on the coach-box, seized the reins and we galloped away. We raced through the forest with the speed of lightning. The foaming horses pulled up by the ferry.

We yelled and yelled, but nobody appeared. We had no idea how the ferry operated and ended up wasting the best part of an hour in fruitless activity, jumping on and off it and then alongside.

‘The devil!’ said Holmes fiercely. ‘He’ll catch up with us.’

We made another desperate attempt and this time success crowned our efforts. Just as we managed to find the end of the mooring rope, we heard the sound of horses galloping, but we had hardly managed to cast off when a troika came straight for us and into the water.

Two men leaped out and before we had time to gather ourselves together, they scrambled on board.

‘Aha, so that’s what you are up to,’ we heard a hoarse voice rage. In that moment I saw Boris Nikolayevitch leap like a cat at Holmes standing by the mooring rope. I threw myself to help him but powerful hands pinioned me.

The ferry forged ahead at full speed and there was nobody to see the life-and-death struggle being waged on board. We fought with every ounce of strength we possessed, we fought tooth and nail as we rolled over and over. In the heat of the struggle I couldn’t see what was happening with Holmes. I gathered up my last reserves of strength, seized my opponent by the throat and with every ounce of strength bashed his head in the darkness against the wooden planking. He, too, made a desperate effort, slipped out of my hands to roll over and vanish beneath the waves.

I leapt to my feet to help Holmes. But it was too late. I was nearly at his side, but he was in a deathly embrace with Kartseff and they went overboard together. Holmes vanished out of sight.

I kept on yelling and screaming for him, but the river was as unresponsive as the grave. Somehow I managed to steer the craft to the opposite shore and at the first village I raised the alarm. I invoked the help of the villagers, and entreated them to find my friend.

All night and day we searched and searched. We even requested the help of the village downriver, but all was in vain. Holmes had irrevocably vanished. We searched a further five days but to no avail. I set off for Moscow, where I laid everything before the police. Soon I departed for England, grieving the premature end of my best friend.